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“Pity.”

“She did say something about liking the Dathomiri, wishing her people could learn from them. It was innocuous … but it kind of sent chills down my spine.”

Luke looked around. “That’s good. Good awareness on your part. And if we can figure out what she wants to learn, maybe we can determine a weakness in her Sith Order. What do the Dathomiri have that the Sith don’t?”

“Unique Force abilities. Interesting mating habits.”

Luke snorted.

“Dad, is it true that Teneniel Djo tried to marry you against your will?” Teneniel Djo, mother of Tenel Ka, had been a Witch of Dathomir.

“If marry is the word, yes. So be careful who you smile at around here. I’m not ready to be a grandfather. Or even a father-in-law.”

“Don’t worry. What are my prospects here? A bunch of women who are used to ruling their men, and one Sith girl.”

Ben spent time in the shadow of the cargo speeder, using macrobinoculars borrowed from Carrack to spy on Vestara.

But, blast her, she didn’t do anything suspicious.

She watched the competitions with interest and enthusiasm. She spoke often with Raining Leaves, especially Olianne, and not infrequently with Kaminne and Halliava.

Vestara chatted and cheered, was warm to some and chilly with others. She moved with a dancer’s grace that was at odds with the slight awkwardness of any young woman her age.

She was, to Ben’s increasing aggravation, like most teenage girls he had met. Nothing about her screamed Sith. She was not surrounded by a miasma of evil, not even by the sort of implacable drive and focus that had been characteristics of Jacen Solo as he became darker.

Ben wished intensely to find some personal reason to dislike the girl, and couldn’t.

He was distracted by a competition—by Han Solo stepping up to the front of a crowd of competitors. Belatedly, Ben realized that it was a blaster pistol competition for those without the Arts. He had been hearing the slow, rhythmic blasts of methodical shooting for some time.

Now Han stood at the front of the line as targets, small clay plates, were stood on end in brackets atop ten wooden posts.

The clan members setting up the targets had barely gotten to a safe distance from them when Han drew and began firing. Unlike the previous competitors, he shot from the hip. His shots came so fast that Ben could barely distinguish between them. In less than three seconds all ten plates were smashed into expanding clouds of clay and gas. Han grinned, twirled his blaster on his finger, and reholstered it.

Ben smiled, too. Han was taking a chance that the reduction in accuracy he’d suffer from firing so fast would be more than offset, if he cleared his targets, by the dismay his show would cause in other competitors.

And he was right. Ben saw faces fall among the other shooters. Many in the audience cheered the ostentatious display of skill.

Tasander Dest, leader of the Broken Columns, stepped up, seeming not at all disheartened. The organizers of the event set up ten new targets. When they were clear of the posts, Dest drew and fired just as Han had. Ten targets exploded into clay fragments.

Han made an unhappy face. Ben snickered. It was good for his uncle to run up against people who could give him a hard time.

There was, to Ben’s surprise, a speeder bike race. Enough members of the Raining Leaves and Broken Columns had acquired the vehicles, whether by trading or stealing Ben didn’t know, to warrant such a competition. There was only one race, for those without the Arts, and eight competitors lined up to participate. Ben supposed that there were not enough Force-users with speeder bikes to hold a heat.

As the speeders roared from the starting line, Ben realized that something was working at him. Nagging him. He pulled down his macrobinoculars and thought about it. Something he’d missed? He was still bothered by Vestara’s claims of having lost her lightsaber. He couldn’t imagine losing his that way, but questions put by Luke and Ben to members of the Raining Leaves made it clear that Vestara had come into their company with nothing but the